Angels to Ashes Read online

  Angels to Ashes

  By Drew Foote

  Copyright © 2014 Drew Foote

  All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  I dedicate this novel to my family and friends, without whom I never would have made it. Thank you all for your support and criticisms: Gina, Brian, Harleen, Lindsay, Jenn, Cole, Travis, Mandee, Mark, Michael, and Brenda.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real Angels or Demons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  1. Barnabas

  2. The Empty One

  3. Kalyndriel

  4. Walter

  5. Nexus

  6. The Bloody Wind

  7. The Tower of Knowledge

  8. The Angel and the Demon

  9. Tear

  10. The Fire of God

  11. The Price of Knowledge

  12. Devourer

  13. Fallen Angel

  14. The Board of Directors

  15. Hell-bound

  16. The Garden of Fire

  17. Father Pandemonium

  18. The Prince of Flies

  19. The Final Chapter

  20. Worn and Frayed

  21. The Climb

  22. Confluence

  23. More Walking

  24. The Head of a Pin

  25. Malebolge

  26. Limbo

  27. Diablerie

  28. The Oracle

  29. The Apple and the Worm

  30. Raphael’s Trumpet

  31. Public Domain

  32. Samael’s Hymn

  33. Unraveling

  34. Firefly

  35. The Graveyard of Ages

  36. The Wages of Sin

  37. The Weight of the World

  38. The Blistering Crown

  39. Reckoning

  40. Into the Void

  41. All Is Ashes

  APPENDIX. Dramatis Personae

  Chapter 1

  Barnabas

  I would give anything to make partner.

  That was my cue.

  I had watched George McCoy for quite some time: he was a wonderfully ambitious, though shortsighted, lawyer at a prestigious law firm in New York City. His boundless aspirations, coupled with his professional mediocrity, made him an appealing prospect. He had stumbled through his career thus far on little more than charisma and blind luck, but he eventually rose to a level where his incompetence was obvious.

  George finally recognized his inadequacy, as did a majority of the firm, and he was subsequently moved to the partnership’s B-team. It was only a matter of time before Johnson and Woodbrook canned him for some gorgeous man-eater in a pantsuit.

  George’s days were numbered.

  I took a deep breath and smoothed the black hair around my horns; it was time to go to work. I closed my eyes and slid through the seams of reality as though they were flimsy shower curtains. I materialized in the center of the Manhattan office with a theatric puff of smoke.

  George raised a red-rimmed gaze from his hands and gawked at my infernal majesty. I obligingly struck a suitably Demonic pose.

  I had always considered myself an exceptionally handsome Demon. Many of my colleagues preferred to go with traditionally diabolic visages: fangs, claws, three heads ... things of that nature. However, I always found there was a certain sweet spot and once you went past it, your numbers suffered.

  You got more flies with honey than with a Lovecraftian visage, as they said, and in my line of work, it did not pay to scare the humans to death.

  I looked much like a tall and outrageously attractive, if somewhat sinister, young man … if that young man had wings, horns, and a tail. My tail was actually rather modest, by Demonic standards: it didn’t have a hissing snakehead. I often said I was so handsome my father must have been an Incubus, but that was an embellishment, of course.

  I didn’t actually have a father.

  Some Demons were recruited from particularly wicked humans, true, but the vast majority of us simply were — primordial beings born from humanity’s vices. We worked, harvested souls, got promoted, and went about our Demonic business. Origins were meaningless.

  “Wha —?” George finally sputtered, interrupting my self-contemplation.

  “Hello, George,” I smiled, walking to his wet bar.

  I fixed myself a whiskey while he stared, dumbfounded. It was often thus when a human actually came face-to-face with a Demon. There was seldom any screaming or running away. A code was hard-wired deep within humanity’s sub-conscious: a belief that, despite what they think they believe or whether or not they go to church, things like Demons and Angels are real. When confronted with concrete confirmation of the supernatural, humans reacted with predictable pliability.

  The sight of the Demonic railed against what their society told them was true but, deep within their souls, they knew: there was a tiny grain of absolute truth in those stuffy old books.

  The world was far more vast and terrifying than their feeble minds could ever imagine.

  George continued to stare, aghast, as I took a seat in the chair in front of his desk, whiskey in hand. I took a sip. It was an unimpressive vintage for an unimpressive lawyer. I smiled again.

  “My name,” I began, “is Barnabas. I’m your friend, and I’m here to fulfill your heart’s desires.”

  I swirled the whiskey in my glass patiently as George struggled for words. You would think a lawyer would be more accepting of the infernal. His eyes darted nervously, alighting on my horns and writhing tail.

  “Demon,” he finally sputtered, hands jittering on his mahogany desk.

  “Demon is such an archaic term, and one so filled with negative connotations.” My grin spread wide over teeth that were slightly too white, too even. “I’m a businessman, much like yourself, and I offer my services to those in need. I mean you no harm.”

  Not exactly a lie, in the most literal sense. No bodily harm.

  “I’m an atheist,” George replied, finally seeming to find the ability to form complete sentences. “This isn’t happening.”

  I chuckled good-naturedly. “Just because vegetarians don’t believe in eating meat doesn’t mean that there isn’t a fat man somewhere enjoying a steak. I assure you that this is happening, right here, right now. I can make your dreams come true.”

  I flexed my wings.

  “My dreams?” he asked quietly. I saw George’s desires dance in the darkened ballroom of his mind. So predictable.

  I saw the terrible want in his eyes. George would not remember our conversation when we were done, of course; I could not have a throng of businessmen and professional athletes running around claiming they had spoken with a Demon.

  The deal would be sealed, and they would foolishly attribute their success to their own talent — until their deaths, anyway.

  “Yes, George, your dreams. I heard you, you know. You always wondered if anyone out there was listening to your wishes. Well, I was. I know you want a partnership at the firm … and I’d be happy to help.”

  George frowned. “I do want to be a partner,” he admitted sheepishly. He fidgeted with a meaningless bauble on his desk. The world outside the office sounded muted and slow, the material realm distorted. No one would disturb us.

  “Of course you do, George. And that’s a perfectly reasonable request, since you deserve to be a partner. You’ve put in the time. You have the skills. You’ve certainly made the sacrifices. I’d say they owe
you a partnership!”

  I witnessed the film reel of his troubled life unfurl in his eyes like an abandoned drive-in: the sleepless nights, the drinking, and the divorce. His wife left and took the kids with her. He missed them so much, but he had chosen his path. George had to succeed, had to win, and he had to prove them all wrong. He must make all the sacrifices, which he had given willingly, count for something.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “I’m your guy, George. I’m your secret weapon, the ace up your sleeve. We can do this, together! We can show all those twits what you’re really worth,” I said enthusiastically.

  I raised my glass in a toast, took a drink, and let my words cascade through the reaches of his soul.

  He was already mine.

  George sat in silence. He was a second-class lawyer in a first-class firm, and his time was running out. He was a beaten man in a shabby suit. His young and talented colleagues would eventually devour him. I was his best friend, his worst enemy. I was a lifeline — straight to Hell.

  “And what would you do?” he finally asked. Watery eyes rose to meet mine.

  “I’d set things right, of course,” I replied, my tail dancing mesmerically. “All you have to do is say the word and you’ll find yourself a partner. And, that’s not all! All the most prestigious cases, the luckiest breaks, and more success and recognition than you know what to do with. I guarantee satisfaction.”

  I displayed my warmest smile.

  “And you’d do all of this out of the kindness of your… heart?”

  “Well, everything has its price. Like you, George, I’m a businessman; we merely deal in different currencies. My currency of choice is something known colloquially as the soul. It’s a small thing, and it’s become far over-valued, in the grand scheme of things. I doubt you’d even miss it.”

  I laughed innocently.

  His gaze narrowed. “I thought those were pretty important?”

  I shook my head slowly, feigning disappointment. “How important would you have thought your soul was fifteen minutes ago? What good did it do you during the divorce? What good did it do you when your father abandoned you and your mother? You didn’t believe in the immortal soul, and that’s not surprising, considering how much good it has done.”

  George smiled wryly, but it was tinged with great sadness. “I didn’t believe in Demons, either, fifteen minutes ago. But here you are.”

  I sighed, exasperated, and sat my drink down. I clasped my hands together and leaned toward him. “Look, I’ll be absolutely honest with you, George. I’m a straight-shooter.”

  I raised my jet-black eyes and peered into the tormented depths of his soul. My divine face, as smooth as chiseled stone, was stern.

  “You were fucked either way. If I’m real, and believe me, I am … where do you think a sinner like you is going? You’ll end up in the same place, regardless. This way, you’d at least have a good time in this life.”

  I rose and took a step toward him, my conviction simmering like coals. “Once we’re done here, you won’t even remember I exist. What do you think the odds are of you becoming born-again? I’d say not fucking likely. Take what you can get, and let me help you.”

  George McCoy looked down, silent. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It shuddered wetly in his chest. “Mind if I get a drink?” he asked.

  “It’s your whiskey.”

  I watched him consider my words. His past, his dreams, and his future collided on a troubled face. I witnessed the weight of his monumental pride struggle against the fears and doubts. He trudged toward the wet bar in his office in a firm that had no future for him or his pathetic regrets. The inevitability of his damnation built in the atmosphere like a thunderstorm.

  Humans were always the same.

  George poured himself a drink and shambled back to the desk that was too large for him. He sipped in silent contemplation. While each moment in the office was heavy with portent, the outside world barely moved. George’s secretary had barely taken three breaths during our discussion; time on Earth moved differently once Demons or Angels got involved.

  George finally raised his gaze. There was resignation, and desperate need, in his haunted stare. He knew he was already damned, and now I all had to do was make it official.

  “What are your terms?”

  I smiled widely — the smile of the prowling shark, the last flash of white before everything became darkness: the hungry grin of a predator. Abyssal wings snapped open with a crack.

  “You shall have: a partnership at this firm, worldly success, good health, monetary wealth, and wonderful relationships with your children and loved ones. I’ll even throw in a pretty young thing to go with your renewed success. I shall have: one eternal soul, originally belonging to George Clarence McCoy, payable upon your death.”

  I leaned forward, hand outstretched. The lights in the office dimmed. Daylight died.

  George McCoy exhaled a tremulous breath. He steeled himself for damnation and a headlong plunge into the fiery pit. Heaven would not miss his soul, but it would be welcome in Hell. That was his destination before we even met. He raised his eyes, met mine bravely, and stood.

  He grasped my hand.

  The burn of my Demonic touch was momentary, but the inferno to come would never end. The bargain was struck.

  He belonged to me.

  ~

  I leaned back in my well-worn chair, feet propped atop my weathered desk. I exhaled with contentment. I sat in my grimy New Orleans office; the closest thing I truly had to a home those days. I often found myself so inundated with work that I seldom had time to return to Hell.

  New Orleans wasn’t bad, as far as human cities went. It had a rich history of oppression and dark magic, the parades were fantastic, and the climate was about as close to Hell as you could get while still having all the amenities of a major city. The heat was brutal, and the humidity was even worse.

  Most damned souls were quite surprised when they discovered that Hell was overwhelmingly humid. Of course Hell was humid: anything to get the heat index higher.

  I lit a cigarette and took an appreciative drag. Many of humanity’s worst ideas had been born of Demonic whispers in their ears, but they had come up with cigarettes all on their own. When we discovered they were killing themselves in droves, we were chagrined that none of us had actually thought of it first. It would have been quite the feather in a Demon’s hat to be able to claim the invention of cigarettes. One would undoubtedly get a promotion for that.

  I exhaled the delicious smoke in neat, orderly ringlets in a rare moment of relaxation. A warm fire crackled in the hearth. With the fireplace vent closed, the room filled with a pleasant smoky haze. My office was located in an old, dilapidated building on the edge of the 15th ward. By all appearances, the building was a small meat-smoking operation, which helped explain the smolder constantly pouring from the building’s seams.

  A cozy fire could improve even the Big Easy’s sweltering heat.

  I reflected on my earlier success with George McCoy. Even though he would have likely wound up in Hell without meeting me, his soul was a welcome addition to my portfolio. Soon, George would find himself placed on progressively more important cases, slam-dunking them and exhibiting legal expertise far beyond his meager talents. He would be the firm’s rock star, racking up accolades and zeroes on his bank account, and he would have an absolute blast.

  For now.

  Some Demons went the extra mile and made their promises backfire in tragic and hilarious ways. A poor man might get his newfound wealth from the death of his entire family. A woman who wanted to be beautiful might find herself morbidly obese because, hey, beauty was subjective — some find fat women beautiful. The possibilities for irony were endless, but I could not be bothered with such trivialities.

  It was a far more productive use of my time to give them what they wanted and move on to the next human. There was always a next human. What did it matter if they actually got what the
ir hearts’ desire? Hell didn’t care, and it even served as a sort of advertisement. What better driver of Pride and Envy was there than some idiot achieving fabulous success?

  I removed my feet from the desk, leaned forward in my chair, and flipped absent-mindedly through the dossiers sitting atop my desk. They outlined potential leads, humans practically begging for my help.

  Nothing of particular interest: an investment banker who had lost everything in the stock market, a welfare mother who dreamed of being a model, and a teeny-bopper pop star who wanted to make it big. The usual. Once I identified a solid prospect, I would feel a tingling sensation in my horns when they were on the verge of despair. Like the proverbial genie in a bottle, I’d pop in and seal the deal.

  I closed the vast majority of transactions, and I had earned quite a reputation as a smooth-talker. I was undeniably good at my job, and I had risen far from my former position as a lowly Venial Sin Demon. I once specialized in distracting people during church, and now I was one of the top earners in the Directorate of Pride, all in less than a thousand years.

  My colleagues often remarked that I must have sold my soul to be so successful so fast. Jealousy was not a trait confined to mortals.

  I frowned. “Arcturus!” I called irritably.

  Arcturus was my assistant, functioning as a sort of Demonic paralegal crossed with an errand boy. He was cranky and ill tempered, but he did a fine job when I actually managed to get some work out of him, which was infrequent.

  He fluttered sullenly through the door, an ugly green imp the size of a bloated housecat. Tiny wings struggled to hoist his ungainly weight. Arcturus had been under my employ for the past few hundred years, ever since he transferred from a stint as a Profanity Imp. He had been quite successful in that job, I’d heard, which was unsurprising considering how apt he was at making me curse.

  He alit his bulk on the edge of my desk, which creaked with protestation, and he regarded me with bulbous, bloodshot eyes. “What?” he barked. His voice was the sound of a lawnmower chewing on a puppy.